


Shrike

by queermccoy



Series: Spotify Year End 2019 [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Fat Shaming, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Fatphobia, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Pansexual Ben Hanscom, Poetry, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queermccoy/pseuds/queermccoy
Summary: One of the things Ben knows about Richie is that he talks a lot, but he doesn’t say anything. He himself doesn’t talk much, but when he does he tries to make it meaningful. He aims to make connections and finds that sincerity bridges the oceans between islands. He isn’t alone like he used to be, isn’t an island like he was before the Losers. He thinks Richie might be though.This more than anything else makes Ben want to keep writing the notes, keep slipping them into his locker, even though Richie doesn’t always make him feel good about himself. He wants Richie to know that someone sees him, even if he doesn’t really understand him.Or, Ben Hanscom keeps sliding notes into Richie Tozier's locker, convinced the other boy will never like him back.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Richie Tozier
Series: Spotify Year End 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564588
Comments: 30
Kudos: 138





	Shrike

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon, who wanted trashstack and the 25th song on my Spotify wrapped playlist, which was Shrike by Hozier. I would not say that this follows the song as closely as I've tried to follow them in previous prompts, but I had this idea and just kept running with it. 
> 
> Ben's haikus in this fic are probably not even really haikus, but just roll with me. I don't understand syllables, even if Ben does. I just thought it was a genuine tragedy that he only ever wrote the one poem like, this kid is sensitive, let him write bad poems to give to his crushes. 
> 
> If you have issues surrounding food or weight I would proceed with caution. I am a doctor certified Fat Person but I am not a doctor, so please don't at me.

Ben feels exposed, like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing. He is, he guesses, doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing. He hasn’t been caught though, he’s just so worried that he will be that it feels like it’s already happened.

He has a note, written on fancy journal paper, folded in half, then half again, clutched in his right hand. He’s at school an hour early to leave the note in a locker, a specific locker, and if anyone does see him, he would maybe die of embarrassment. 

The note is for Richie Tozier, one of Ben’s best friends, who yesterday made a self deprecating joke about his appearance that Ben feels an overwhelming need to redress. It reads, “Eyes like sea glass found/On rocky storm wrecked beaches/Beauty in your smile.” 

It’s maybe less of a note and more of a poem. A haiku about how pretty Richie’s eyes are behind those thick plastic glasses because they are pretty. They’re like swirling waves of ocean water off the coast of Maine. Ben isn’t like the other Losers, he’s been to other states and seen other places, experienced different environments. He knows that the ocean off the sharp coasts of Maine is different than the ocean anywhere else, and Richie’s like that too. His appeal is different, more imposing and unavoidable than in anyone else Ben has ever known. 

There’s no one in the hallway when Ben slips the paper into Richie’s locker through the slats at the top. He hopes it makes him feel good about himself. He hopes it helps. 

Later, Ben watches Richie open his locker. The note flutters out, like a bird. Richie catches it in his long fingers and furrows his brow. He opens it, reads it, and Ben is surprised when he leans heavily against the shelf inside his locker for support, like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. Ben’s never seen him so… affected. 

Richie reads the note again, and Ben has to look away when the smallest, sweetest smile pulls on his lips. It makes something swell in his own chest, so he _has_ to look away. 

There’s no mention of the note, not by Richie and certainly not by Ben, but he catches him patting the front pocket of his jeans throughout the day. Ben thinks the note might be there, tucked away and safe, and the thought of it burns him in the best possible way. 

He writes more poems about Richie, about his hair and his fingers and his mouth, the way it never stops running. He writes three and picks one he thinks Richie might want to hear the most. He rewrites it on his nice journal paper, just like the first one. He folds it in half, then half again. 

Ben’s more confident this time that nothing will go wrong, that he won’t be caught leaving the note in Richie’s locker. He isn’t, and he watches again as Richie peels the note apart and reads the message inside. Ben knows what it says, and holds his breath as Richie reads, “You are a wonder/Hands that fly like blue birds/Perching only when it’s right.” 

His reaction is no less profound today. He touches the poem delicately, like it might fall apart if he isn’t careful. He glances up, looking in the opposite direction of where Ben is standing. He looks down quickly, hurriedly pawing through his own locker like he wasn’t just staring at Richie. 

He begins watching Richie more carefully, throughout the day, trying to learn new things about him that he could put in his haikus. He finds that, in general, he doesn’t learn anything he didn’t already know about the other boy and that makes him blush even though he’s alone when he notices. 

Ben drops a note in Richie’s locker every morning for a week. He watches him smile and blush a little before tucking them away for safekeeping. Richie is smart and Ben knows it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught. He does it away, feeling a sort of reckless abandon that isn’t very much like him at all. 

At the start of week two, Eddie is with Richie when he walks down the hallway, talking a mile a minute at a decibel that barely registers as sound. Ben watches Richie position himself between the other kid and his locker, like he’s guarding what’s inside. 

Ben knows what’s in there; a page of unlined paper that says, in his nearest handwriting so it barely looks like his anymore, “You are capable/You can do anything you/Dream up so fly.” It would be less embarrassing for Eddie to see that one than some of the others but still impossible to explain.

Eddie waves to him, pausing briefly in his tirade, and Ben waves back, smiling at them both. 

“Aren’t you going to grab your books, Rich?” Eddie asks, and Richie shrugs. They set off together back down the hall, Richie’s arm slung casually around Eddie’s smaller, slighter shoulders. 

Oh, Ben thinks. Oh. 

He feels sick, like he just caught a stomach bug, but he doesn’t go to the nurse because he knows what it is. He’s come down with this before, when the Losers were younger and Bill and Bev... 

He’s felt this way before. 

It doesn’t scare him, necessarily, that he feels this way over Richie. Not because it’s Richie. It scares him that he managed to surprise himself over it, the enormity of it sneaking up on him. 

He has a crush on Richie Tozier.

Ben wraps his arms around his soft middle and thinks miserably, _small_ and _slight_. He isn’t either of those things. 

Ben’s been on the wrestling team for four years and, at this point, he’s at the top of his weight class for the region. He does track in the spring, shot put, and Ben likes that better because Eddie is on the team too, sprinting and running relays. He wrestles on his own though and every year he has to bulk up to make the cut for his weight class. Every year he feels gross about it. 

He hates the food and he hates eating constantly. He hates the way people look at him when he eats and he hates that he knows they’re thinking about how fat he is while he’s eating and he can’t make them stop. Even his friends sometimes, look on with horror when he opens a plastic container of boiled chicken and broccoli but also half a loaf of bread, all for a meal between dinner and bed. 

Richie is the worst offender, cracking jokes about Ben that earn him scattered _beep, beeps_  
and sometimes a sharp slap on the shoulder from Bev. She pities him, and he feels pretty gross about that too. 

It makes his skin itch and his stomach hurt, that he thinks Richie is so beautiful and Richie thinks he looks like something out of a John Carpenter movie. Ben gains muscle and bulk but at the end of the day, he’s still a fat person. Fat boy. The guys on the team call him strong-fat but that hurts just as bad. 

In the middle of the week, he’s eating his second dinner at Bill’s house while they all watch a movie he isn’t really paying attention to. The food turns to ash in his mouth, but he eats it anyway, because he made a commitment and he honors those. His dad wrestled in school, and so did his uncles. He hates it so much. 

Richie tells a joke, referring to Ben as the Pillsbury Doughboy, and no one says anything, so Ben doesn’t either. He does pack up his boiled chicken and leaves the house though. He doesn’t know what happens after he leaves, but the next day, Bev tells him Richie didn’t mean it. 

They’re sitting in the big stall at the far end of the boy’s bathroom in the art wing, Bev leaning out the cracked window with a stolen cigarette. Ben is sitting on the toilet, keeping her company. 

That morning, he’d left Richie’s note in his locker with a deep, clawing despair licking up his spine. He doesn’t regret it, even now with Bev playing referee to a game Richie doesn’t even realize they’re playing.

“He’s just, bad with his words,” Bev says, like she’s telling Ben something he doesn’t already know. He lets her translate for Richie and nods. “He doesn’t really… think that way.” Ben raises his eyebrows at her and she clarifies, “About you.” 

“Then why did he say it?” Ben asks, even though he knows Bev can’t possibly know the answer. She averts her eyes and takes a long drag off her cigarette. She’s being shifty, but Ben lets her get away with it. He always has and he always will. 

“You could try talking to him?” Bev suggests, blowing smoke out of the window. Ben nods, like maybe he’ll think about it. He won’t though, and he knows it. 

One of the things Ben knows about Richie is that he talks a lot, but he doesn’t say anything. He himself doesn’t talk much, but when he does he tries to make it meaningful. He aims to make connections and finds that sincerity bridges the oceans between islands. He isn’t alone like he used to be, isn’t an island like he was before the Losers. He thinks Richie might be though. 

This more than anything else makes Ben want to keep writing the notes, keep slipping them into his locker, even though Richie doesn’t always make him feel good about himself. He wants Richie to know that someone sees him, even if he doesn’t really understand him. Sincerity builds bridges, after all, but Richie’s island is rocky and Ben is afraid he might crash into his unforgiving shoreline. 

At the start of week three, Ben comes into school with a note in his right hand, folded in half once, then folded in half again. The halls are empty, but he’s old hat at this now so he doesn’t waste time looking around. He slides the creamy journal paper through the top slot of Richie’s locker. He smiles softly and pats the metal ridges. Good work, team, he thinks to himself. 

He doesn’t linger to see Richie open this one. He has to meet with the wrestling team before classes start. They have a meet today and the coach wants to weigh everyone one final time before the Brewer High Witches descend on Derry. 

Ben can’t focus on anything all day because he’s nervous about the meet. He’s always nervous before he competes. He isn’t an aggressive person and it’s hard for him to get into a competitive mindset. He can’t focus, but he does notice Richie looking at him. His face is blank and impassive when he does, but he’s definitely doing it more than usual. Ben wonders why, but can’t focus enough to figure it out. 

The Losers come to his meet, even Mike who is home-schooled by his grandfather, decked out in school colors. They’re sitting in the stands, up near the top, the brightest things in the whole gym. They outshine the fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceilings, reflecting off the heavily waxed floor. Bev is holding a glittering sign that says, “Go Ben!!” and Richie keeps trying to make the crowd do the wave. Ben turns and waves at them while he waits for his turn on the mat. 

The kid from Brewer in his weight class is a little bigger than him and he is relieved, even though being relieved makes him feel guilty. He won’t look so fat, he thinks, since this guy is fatter. 

When they wrestle, Ben gains an advantage over his opponent and pins him to the mat early. He’s got him caught and the referee, surprised, jumps to start the countdown. Ben is barely sweating. It feels too good to be true, but it is. The crowd is screaming but all Ben can hear is the referee next to him. 

He looks up at the stands, bigger boy pinned under his weight, and his eyes land on Richie first. He is… There’s something about the set of his square jaw and the way he has his arms wrapped around his middle, fingers clenched in his gaudy over shirt. His eyes are sharp. He looks sharp. Ben thinks, Oh. 

After the meet, the Losers crowd around the locker room and surprise Ben on his way out. They slap his shoulders and give him enthusiastic high fives. Stan doesn’t, but he does congratulate him and offer a huge smile, his eyes crinkling. Ben smiles back. He loves these Losers. 

Richie is overly loud, absolutely exuberant, more so than their other friends. Bill places a hand on his shoulder to slow him down, but it only works for a moment before he’s back in Ben’s space, talking about how cool he was during the meet, what a badass he is. Ben flushes an embarrassing and dark red. Richie’s hands don’t linger but his eyes do. Ben can’t seem to catch them though, and when the Loser’s all exit the school to grab a late post-meet dinner at the Governor’s down the road, Richie sits diagonal from Ben, as far away as he can. 

Ben doesn’t eat much, just a sad side salad and three fries Stan offers him. His coach said he was falling behind where he wants Ben to be in his weight gain and it steals his appetite away and leaves him feeling somehow too fat and not fat enough and he never knows what to do with that feeling even though it happens every year. 

He ignores it completely and exists in the same space as his friends, loving how solid the bridges between them are under his feet. He laughs when Eddie makes a show of checking all of their forks for food residue and Ben loves him for doing it for Stan, who didn’t want to be the one to look. He laughs when Richie and Mike get into an argument about _Animal Farm_ that also sends Bill into a fit of hysterics. He and Bev play tic-tac-toe with the sugar and Splenda packets, making a grid with their utensils, and he laughs about that too. 

It’s been a good night, mostly, and he doesn’t think about his salad or his boiled chicken or even the bag of chips he has hiding in his locker at school. He’s focused on his friends, who he loves. 

Post-dinner, the Losers split up, Bill, Mike, and Stan walking back to school to grab Bill’s car and drive Mike home, Eddie and Bev riding away on Bev’s bike, and Richie and Ben walking to their respective homes. 

“Working on your girlish figure?” Richie asks when they’re walking down the street alone. Their houses are closer to the restaurant and it doesn’t make sense not to walk back. He wasn't expecting Richie to walk with him, really, even though his house is only a couple of blocks away from Ben’s and only four from the restaurant. When Ben doesn’t reply Richie says, “You know, because of the rabbit food?” 

Ben is silent for a moment before saying, “I wasn’t hungry.” Because it’s the truth, even if it isn’t very truthful. 

Richie doesn’t say anything after that, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched up by his ears. They walk together down the road, in the middle of the street because it’s empty and dark and more fun that way. Ben looks back at him, Richie’s meandering pace making him fall behind, and catches Richie’s eye for the first time since the meet. The other boy blushes. It confuses Ben, who furrows his brow. 

He stops walking and turns to face Richie, unsure of what to do with his hands and his face. He isn’t sure what to say. “What’s up, Rich?” He asks, finally. 

Richie scuffs his right foot on the pavement, watching the toe of his shoe fit in the crack down the road. He doesn’t speak for so long that Ben is afraid he might never. 

Just when Ben is about to tell him it’s alright he doesn’t have to say anything, Richie looks up and says quietly, “I saw you.” 

“Saw me, what?” Ben asks even though he knows. He knows what Richie saw. He knew this was how it would turn out. 

For the first time since he started with the poetry and the sneaking around, Ben realizes that maybe Richie would have a problem with Ben being a man, or almost a man; a boy. It hadn’t occurred to Ben that Richie might be insulted. He never took much stock in the casual name calling of their peers, but Richie always has. 

Ben is afraid. He isn’t proud of it, but for a moment he is afraid that Richie will do to him what other boys have done to Richie their whole lives. He braces himself for fists but instead there’s only thick, oily silence. An ocean grows between them, stuck in the doldrums. 

“Did you mean them?” Richie asks. His eyes are unreadable, like his face has been all day. Ben isn’t sure that he won’t be punished for what he’s done, but takes a deep breath and lifts his right hand. He rests it on Richie’s shoulder, bumping into the strap of Richie’s L.L. Bean backpack.

“I like you,” Ben says instead of answering the question. His answer is yes yes of course yes, but some of the things he wrote were things he isn’t sure he could ever say out loud. His voice is low, not because he’s ashamed of his feelings, but because sound carries at night down long residential streets and he doesn’t want to scare Richie away. 

“Bev, I thought?” Richie’s voice sounds like it’s full of glass, like the words hurt coming out. Ben wants to give him tea with honey, like his mom makes for him when his throat hurts. 

He shakes his head and squeezes Richie’s shoulder before replying, “I still- She’s _Bev_. I’m sorry if that… if it bothers you.” He repeats, “I like you.” 

There is no expectation, Ben just wants, and has always wanted, Richie to know how special he is. That’s been the whole point of the notes, of the poetry. Richie is like sun showers and the way burdock feel when you pet them with the grain, almost soft.

Richie slowly, like Ben will be startled away if he moves too fast, brings his hand up to cover Ben’s on his shoulder. Their fingers slot together over the fabric of his shirt and he says, making eye contact that makes Ben’s brain empty completely, “I like you, too.” 

Unable to stop himself, Ben pulls away like he’s been burned. “What,” he sputters. He turns away and walks fast down the road, away from Richie, who has clearly lost his mind. 

For a minute, Ben is the only one rushing down the road. He makes good headway and is almost to his house when Richie catches up, his long legs making up the difference. 

“Wait-!” He’s panting a little, reaching out for Ben to stop him from moving. Ben is stronger than Richie though, so he breaks out of his hold easily enough, even if he does stop moving forward. 

“You don’t have to... that isn’t why I did it!” He doesn’t shout, because generally Ben doesn’t. His voice is forceful though, hard and brittle all at once, and he doesn’t like how it feels in his mouth. “Please don’t lie to me.” 

“What?” Richie shakes his head, shaggy hair floppy around his ears. “What?” He repeats. 

Ben wants to scrub a hand over his face but instead in squares his shoulders and says, “You don’t have to pretend, it’s okay.” 

Richie isn’t really that much taller than Ben, but he seems to tower over him, invading his space. “I’m not pretending! Why would I do that?” 

Ben blinks, taken aback by how angry Richie is, not that Ben likes him but that Ben doesn’t believe that he likes him back. This is not at all what he expected. He takes a deep shuddering breath. 

He knows how to be someone on the outside looking in, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do right now. Richie doesn’t know what he wants, and Ben feels like he’s trapped him and made him feel things that can’t possibly be true. He wants to explain this, but isn’t sure where to begin.

“My mom is at work,” Ben says, gesturing to his house. It’s right there and he thinks it might be easier to speak plainly in-doors where it’s safe. Richie is a boy and so is Ben and he remembers now why they need the door between them and the world. He also doesn’t want to have this conversation in the street because it’s going to gut him and he’s selfish and wants to be somewhere he’s comfortable while they’re having it. Richie nods and they walk the rest of the way there in silence. 

Inside the entryway of Ben’s house, they remove their shoes and toss their backpacks by the door. Richie shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look at Ben. 

“I’m not making it up, why would I make it up?” He demands. Ben shrugs, but doesn’t reply. He moves down the hall and into the kitchen. Richie’s throat still sounds raw so he makes him a tea without asking, setting out the honey while the water boils on the stove. He gets himself a glass of water. 

“You aren’t interested in me, Richie, come on,” Ben finally says, dropping a tea bag in a mug of steaming water. He slides it across the counter to Richie who looks at it like it might bite him. 

“I’m ah,” Richie touches the mug but doesn’t drink from it, leaves it sitting on the counter. “Guys are- I’m-”

Ben gulps down his water and doesn’t stop until the glass is empty. He sets it back down, next to Richie’s tea mug. It’s over seeped now and getting dark. 

“It’s not about that,” Ben plays with the condensation left on his glass. “It’s about me.” 

“What about you?” Richie sounds confused again. Ben meets his eyes and he is trying to say without saying that it’s okay that Richie isn’t attracted to him. He doesn’t expect him to be. He doesn’t expect anyone to be. 

“You… make a lot of jokes, Rich,” Ben says. “You aren’t into me.” 

“Ben, Benny, Benjamin,” Richie exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Richie touches his face, hands on his cheeks. He leans in, touches his lips next to his right thumb, on the corner of Ben’s mouth. “Ben, I’m sorry.”

Richie exhales again, curling forward into Ben’s space. He looks up at him through long, dark eyelashes and asks again, “Did you mean it?” 

Ben thinks Richie is being very brave. He wants to be too. He nods, his face still in Richie’s hands. Yes yes of course yes. 

“You’re one hot papa, Haystack,” Richie tells him. The nickname hurts and doesn’t, coming from him. “Wait- shit! Hot-stack? Not Haystack, fuck!” Richie exclaims, leaning forward and bumping his forehead into Ben’s. Ben is blushing when Richie kisses him properly. 

Ben is careful when he wraps his arms around Richie’s body and pulls them close together. He feels good, pressed up against Ben’s front, his waist firm under Ben’s hands. He hugs him tight. 

“Fuck, you’re strong,” Richie murmurs, melting into the embrace. He runs his nose along Ben’s cheek, he glasses scraping uncomfortably. “I bet you could lift me; can you lift me?” 

Ben nods, almost absentminded, because Richie is kissing him again, his hands in Ben’s hair. At Ben’s affirmation Richie lets out a groan Ben knows Richie himself would make fun of anyone else for making but Ben thinks it’s pretty great. He thinks Richie is pretty great. He’s such a giant doofus but also so sweet and so...

There are words he can’t say yet, even to himself. 

“Do it,” Richie orders, pulling away completely and spreading his arms. Ben draws a blank because his mouth burns and he barely remembers his own name. Richie makes a come on gesture with both hands and says, “Lift me!” 

Ben laughs and complies, sweeping Richie off his feet and into a fireman’s carry. The other boy flails for a moment before wrapping his arms loosely around Ben’s neck. Richie kicks out his leg like something out of a postcard and leans in for a kiss, lips puckered dramatically. The kiss is quick and light in a way the others decidedly weren’t. He’s still laughing when he sets Richie carefully down onto the floor. 

“Dimple-stack,” Richie babbles, almost nonsensically, poking at the divots in Ben’s cheeks. “I want to show you something.” He leaves Ben standing in the kitchen next to the tea he’ll never drink. 

Richie comes back holding a spiral bound notebook, red and covered in ballpoint pen doodles and produce stickers. He smacks it down on the counter and flips past the first few pages, which are filled with Richie’s messy handwriting, whole paragraphs crossed out and some bits circled. Ben wonders what he wrote about but is distracted from that line of thought when Richie points to the first note Ben left in his locker, carefully taped into the pages of this notebook. He flips and each page holds a poem, all 11 of them. 

“I kept a list,” Richie says, moving to the back of the notebook and jabbing at the last page. “Of all the people I thought you were and all the people I hoped you were.” 

Ben bends to look at the lists and sees that one is longer and is mostly girls from their grade (and Bill) and the other is just his name. He glances up at Richie, surprised. “What?” 

“I told you, Hot-stack, you’re hot shit and you make my insides do the cha cha slide so,” Richie shrugs, not meeting his eyes, but he’s smiling so Ben takes that as a win. 

He folds the notebook closed and reaches for Richie’s hand. “Let’s go watch TV,” he says, because he wants to be close to Richie but he’s tired and he wants to sit down. He isn’t really ready for Richie to be in his room, not now that things are different. 

He can’t believe things are different. He can’t believe Richie likes him. 

Richie intertwines their fingers and reaches for his mug. He tosses the bag in the trash, dumps half of the tea down the sink, and fills the mug back up with water. He puts it in the microwave for a minute and thirty seconds. He doesn’t let go of Ben’s hand once and Ben finds that it makes his heart feel warm and soft and he can feel his eyes making cartoon hearts in their sockets. 

“You don’t have to-“ Ben says, gesturing to the now steaming mug. 

Richie looks offended. “You made it for me!” he insists, taking a sip even though it must be too hot. “Mmhm, delicious!” 

“Come on, you dork!” Ben laughs, pulling him into the living room. They pile onto the couch and cuddle together. Despite the kisses in the kitchen, the grand declarations, the admissions of insecurity, they’re still so shy. Ben sits with Richie’s back against his chest and feels himself ache in the best possible way.

“Do you really think my eyes look like the rolling Atlantic Ocean, expressive and all consuming?” Richie asks over an episode of _Fresh Prince_ , sounding tentative. He’s paraphrasing from one of the poems, the one Ben put in his locker last Friday when he was feeling especially sappy.

Ben glances down, concerned that Richie is still feeling insecure, but finds him staring up at him with his glasses pushed up his forehead, eyes crossed, and his mouth hanging open. His lips are drawn over his teeth. It’s horrific but also a little charming, because it’s _Richie_. 

Ben shoves him, but draws him back in immediately, tugging him close, arms fully around his waist. He waits for Richie’s attention to wander back to the television so he’s surprised when Ben says, “I do,” and kisses his neck. Richie blushes and it stains his cheeks and the tips of his ears a bright red. His freckles disappear under the power of it. Ben kisses those too, even though he can’t see them.

Ben walks Richie to his front door at the end of the night and pauses before opening it. He leans into Richie’s space and places a chased kiss on the highest arch of his cheek. He is delighted when Richie flushes again. Ben has never seen him blush so much, and it fills him with an unbridled and fresh joy. 

Richie leans in and kisses him back, on the lips. They say goodnight, soft and slow and sweet.

Because Richie is Richie and he can never let a genuine moment last when it could be a funny one he says, “Catch ya later, Muffin-stack!” He gives Ben a cheeky salute before slipping out the door. 

Ben mouths, “Muffin,” to himself in disbelief. He leans against the door with his hands covering his smiling mouth. 

They’re going to have to talk about whatever it is that they’re doing, if they’re dating or what, at some point but for right now, Ben grins behind his hands. He shakes his head in disbelief, half convinced he’s been dreaming. He feels like he’s getting away with something, and he loves it. Laughing, he heads to his room. 

Tomorrow is another day and tonight, he has note to write.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me](https://queermccoy.carrd.co/) on the internet or just [send me](https://queermccoy.tumblr.com/ask) an ask with a number (1-100) and an IT pairing and I'll whip up a fic based on the song that corresponds with that number in my Year End Review.


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